


Like A Bullet in the Back

by ShastaFirecracker



Series: Florence 'verse [5]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe- No Supernatural, Domestic Fluff, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff and Angst, Just Add Kittens, Law Student Sam, M/M, Mechanic Dean, Panic Attacks, Teacher Castiel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-19
Updated: 2015-01-18
Packaged: 2018-03-08 04:04:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 19,819
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3194663
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShastaFirecracker/pseuds/ShastaFirecracker
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean and Cas are both the kind of people who get angry and defensive when something scares them, so their first real fight was inevitable. What matters is how they pick up the pieces, and who's there to look out for them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Safewording, miscommunication. More specific notes at the end.

_“Happiness hit her like a bullet in the back  
Struck from a great height by someone who should know better than that”_

 

May 1

 

_“Red.”_

Instantly his wrists are free, the weight's gone from his back; he sucks in a breath, yanks his knee under himself and flips over, ready to kick or run. Then he sees Cas, just Cas, blue eyes wide with fear, and everything in him collapses.

Dean sags onto his hands on the mattress, not quite in a fetal position, breathing harsh and deep like he's just run a marathon. He _knows_ it's Cas; he knows, he knows. For a heartbeat, though, he was gone somewhere in his own head, gone away from this warm familiar bedroom, gone into an empty blank space that could be filled up with anything – and the hands that were there with him, they could have belonged to anyone. Hands tight on his wrists, so unmoving they could've been cuffs, and the _weight._

“Dean,” says a voice that doesn't sound like Cas; it's too small.

Dean gulps in air and shakes his head, squeezing his eyes shut for a second. “I'm fine,” he barks. “I'm fine, sorry. Just gimme a sec.”

“Yes,” Cas says, sounding uncertain.

It was momentary; it's passing. Dean's heart's still pounding, his hands and feet tingle; he ignores the little waver that runs underneath the hum; it'll even out when he gets back in the rhythm, no problem. He's fine, working through this is fine. He takes a deep, deliberate breath and lets it out. Yeah, he's still interested. He casts Cas what he hopes is a reassuring grin and reaches out to pull him close. Just – as long as he can see Cas, that's all.

But Cas doesn't come closer with his usual eagerness, he doesn't give way to Dean's touch. His brows furrow immediately and his hands go over Dean's, grabbing and stilling. “Dean,” he says. “No, Dean, what?”

“C'mon,” Dean says. “It's over, I'm good.”

“No,” Cas says again, more firmly, and holds Dean's hands still against his chest. “Dean, you've never safeworded like that before. We're stopping.”

Sudden, unbidden heat stabs through Dean and although he wants to pretend it's lust, it isn't; it's anger, it's fear, it's sour adrenaline. “I'm fine,” he snaps. “I just needed a second.”

“I was holding too tight,” Cas says. “Did I hurt your wrists?” He tries to move Dean's hands so he can see them.

Dean wrenches them away. “It doesn't fucking matter,” he says, so incredibly frustrated with Cas' willful obtuseness. “It's just 'cause I couldn't see you. We can do it this way -” He tries to indicate face-to-face with a gesture.

“We're not doing anything any way,” Cas snaps, sounding equally frustrated. “If you can forget who you're with in the middle of it, you're not ready for -”

Oh, it's anger now, all anger. _“I'm_ the one who says when I'm ready and what for,” Dean says dangerously. “You're not my goddamn sex therapist.”

Cas blinks, rubs a thumb into the corner of his eye. Dean recognizes the hurt in his expression and a little voice in him immediately cries out apology, but that voice is caged. “I'm not... trying to be – I do trust you to know your limits, I -”

“Then,” Dean says, reaching out and taking Cas' wrist. They're close on the covers, an easy lean to kiss, but Dean's never felt this unable to initiate. He puts himself so close, so available, so wanting. At least, he hopes it's wanting. He hopes Cas just _takes._

But hurt simmers into anger in Cas' expression just for a moment, and he leans away. “I said _no,_ ” he says, sharp. “You're not the only one with limits. I don't want you like this.”

The words sink cold into Dean's abdomen like a knife blade. He keeps still for a moment, counting. He lets go of Cas' wrist.

“Dean,” Cas says, face falling. “I didn't mean.”

“It's okay,” says Dean, moving to the edge of the bed.

“I didn't mean I don't want you. I want you.”

“Not when I fuck up,” Dean says, surprised at the steadiness of his voice. He finds his underwear, ignores the discomfort of trapped slick sticking to his thighs.

Cas hastens to stand, but Dean sidesteps him for shirt and jeans. “That's _not,_ ” Cas snaps, blazing fierce, and Dean can't look at him in all this hurt earnestness. “That _is not what happened.”_

Dean shrugs into his shirt and spreads his hands. “Come and get it, then.”

Cas steps towards him. “Dean, we need to talk about this,” he says, reaching out.

Dean leans out of his touch. “Had your chance,” he says coolly, and heads out of the bedroom.

Cas doesn't seem to notice he's naked as he follows Dean. “What are you doing,” he says.

“I don't want to _talk about it,”_ Dean finally explodes, rounding on Cas, who seems so much shorter than him like this, all tousled and vulnerable skin. “I don't want to _think_ about the shitty things. Letting go like that is supposed to be about _not thinking about the shitty things._ I just needed you to stop for a second and you did, thank you, but it passed and I was _fine_ and if you won't trust me when I tell you that, then –”

“I do trust you,” Cas fumes back. “I trust the part of you that needed that safeword and I'm still trusting that part. This right now, this is denial, this isn't what you -”

“Well I'm glad you already know,” Dean says, “what I'm doing and why I'm doing it. I don't even need to be here.”

“I need you here,” says Cas, reaching for Dean's arm. “I need you to stop for a second. You had a flashback and we can figure out how to get past it, just talk to me.”

“I am past it,” Dean snaps, jerking his arm away. His keys are on the coffee table; he snatches them up, forgets everything else. “I was past it. The whole point of the shit we do is me getting past it. I don't need to hash it out all goddamn over again.”

He's a few strides to the door when he realizes Cas' stopped.

“The whole point?”

Dean looks back. Cas' expression is blank now, hard.

“The whole point,” Cas repeats.

“Cas,” Dean says.

“You're using me to exorcise your demons. The whole point. Not because you want to be here, with me, independent of your past.”

Dean's stomach lurches but he's still too muddled with anger. “You're twisting it all the fuck up,” he snaps.

“Am I,” says Cas. His arms are crossed and his nakedness doesn't detract from the deadliness of his glower.

“You don't even go for the kinky shit,” Dean argues. “You only do it when I ask.”

“It's inconceivable,” Cas says icily, “that I might be making a concession to your need to rediscover those desires at your own pace.”

Dean opens his mouth, shuts it again, burning through every nerve ending with raw – raw something. Raw everything. “That is so,” he struggles, “motherfucking – _patronizing.”_

Something in Cas' spine locks upright; his feet and shoulders settle military-perfect. “I think you were showing yourself out,” Cas says.

“Cas,” says Dean.

Cas turns on his heel and goes back towards the bedroom.

“Castiel,” Dean snaps.

Cas' shoulder twitches and he steps into the bedroom, throws Dean a look of pure poison, and shuts the door. Doesn't slam it. Just clicks it shut.

Then Dean's alone by the apartment's front door, a mix of dizzy high and quaking low blurring the very outlines of his being. And there's also a dimly felt core that is just an ache. Just a sticky pit of soreness and rot.

He's been fooling himself to think that Cas wouldn't hit the rotten center of him, as far down as he's been letting Cas dig these past months.

He listens for a minute but hears nothing from the bedroom. What was he expecting? Sudden wailing, thrown furniture; the door to fling back open and Cas to emerge again, to either punch him or kiss him (and Dean doesn't know which he'd prefer)? There's just silence and the faint hum of the fridge from the kitchen.

Dean leaves.

 

\---

 

It's dumb as hell and a waste of gas, but he drives until his hands stop shaking.

He'll have to put up with another Sammy Lecture about endangering other people on the road by driving while upset, but the fucks Dean gives are in the negative dozens. Besides, driving is the most calming thing he knows to do. The only time he wobbles onto the rumble strip with distraction is when he tries to think back to the exact _moment_ of his freakout, to decide what exactly happened. He remembers the two of them deciding that Operation: Make Dean Come Untouched sounded like a fantastic idea; he remembers asking Cas to bind his hands, Cas being less than comfortable with it, suggesting just holding Dean's hands behind his back instead; he remembers Cas sucking him right up to the keening edge, then flipping him over and eating him out, so hotgoodclose, so needtotouch needneed _need,_ and then the gutpunch of _yes_ that had sung through him when he instinctively tried wriggling his hands loose and Cas had held like a vice.

There hadn't been anything bad, was the thing that made it all so infuriatingly unfair. Dean couldn't pinpoint anything they'd done wrong. One moment he knew Cas was there with him, and the next he was drifting dizzy and high with pleasure, face pressed into the warm soft dark of the pillow, and... he just didn't _know_ that it was Cas. The certainty wasn't there, he wasn't totally present in the moment, he could've been anywhere or anywhen. The hands holding him down could've been Alastair's, could've been Crowley's, could've been any of the hands that'd touched him when he was blinded and bound. Anonymous, greedy, hard.

He'd almost choked on the word, because for a second he'd thought _if I speak out of turn it'll get worse._ But he'd said it anyway, made the leap of faith. And Cas had been there to catch him.

His anger is fading from a city-stomping movie monster into nothing more than a little, ugly, scurrying thing that gnaws at the corners of his overwhelming regret.

He's mad about legit things. He knows he's mad about legit things, and he's gonna get his head in the game and figure out how to tell Cas the things he's mad about – later. When he can English clearer. Right now his brain feels like his knee did after one too many teenaged tackle injuries: backwards, swollen, full of jelly and broken glass.

When he gets to the apartment building over an hour later he's beyond tired. He feels hollow, nauseous. His legs barely want to work. Walking up the stairs after sitting in the car so long only reminds him that his shorts are tacky-damp with lube and dried saliva. He winces and walks carefully but fast, wanting to get home, to get clean, to strip the rest of the evening off his skin with steel wool if he has to.

He opens the apartment door, steps inside, breathes a heavy breath out.

There's a rustle. “Dean?”

Fucking hell. Dean turns to glance at Sam, locking the door back behind him and throwing his keys at the kitchen counter as nonchalantly as possible. “Hey Sam.”

Sam's half-risen from the couch, where he'd been reading and (clearly) waiting. “Cas called,” he says.

Mother _fucker._ Dean nearly repeats the same out loud, but instead he just pulls a face that he hopes looks questioning. It's more like a grimace.

“Just to say you left your phone there,” Sam goes on, frowning. “And your jacket. And your shoes.”

Dean looks down. He'd unthinkingly toed into a pair of sandals on the way out the door because they're always there – Cas hates to bother with lacing up and buttoning down and getting presentable just to step outside to get his mail, things like that. Cas never wears shoes in his apartment and Dean's gotten in the same habit, and he steals Cas' sandals all the time if he needs to go outside.

He pushes them off his feet by the door with a shrug and heads for the hall.

“Dean,” Sam pushes, standing up completely from the couch.

“I'm going to piss, Sam,” Dean says shortly. “Want to hold it for me?”

He evades Sam's gaze, goes to his room for a change of clothes, then locks himself in the bathroom and turns on the shower.

He wastes as much water as he had gas. He stays in it until it starts running cool. Much as he'd like a drink, he'd like to avoid Sam more, so he dodges straight from the bathroom to his door. He must not shut it quietly enough, though, because a minute after he's thrown himself onto the bed he hears Sam's giant steps coming down the hall.

“Dean?”

“Fuck off,” Dean calls.

“I texted Cas that you got here,” Sam says, muffled by the thin wood. “He sounded really worried when he called.”

Dean gives a neutral grunt of acknowledgement.

“I know you had a fight,” Sam says. “He wouldn't say what it was about but I'm gonna stand right here until you talk.”

“Go,” says Dean, “away.”

“I'll talk about my pre-law classes,” Sam says. “They're intensely boring. You know what, I'll tell you some Bluebook citation rules.”

“Sam-”

“Only way I won't talk is if you're talking,” Sam says, stubborn as hell. “So if you're citing a primary source, you-”

Dean squeezes his eyes shut. “Yeah, Sammy,” he says, and lets his voice sink into a lazy drawl, injecting all the poison he can into every word. “Let's _talk._ Let's have a good old heart to heart about how your big brother likes to take it up the ass. 'Bout how I like it to hurt, and your favorite Clark Kent professor all doe-eyed and innocent likes _makin'_ it hurt. Yeah? You wanna talk about that?”

“You can't make me leave,” Sam retorts. “So it was a sex fight?”

“Go fuck yourself, Freud.”

“Dean, I'm not trying to fight with you, I just want to know what happened.”

“Why? So you can joke about how I fucked it up? Offer to put me out of my misery? Best places to hide my body, that's funny stuff.”

“Dean...” He can hear Sam heave a sigh. “I'm sorry about that, I am. I won't do it again. I wanna know because I love you and Cas both and it's been so rainbows and daisies with you two, I knew when a hit came it was gonna be hard. So I decided a long time ago I wasn't gonna let you stew in it this time. Do you know how many relationships you've walked away from after one fight?”

“Yeah, 'cause what's the point of something that's supposed to be about feeling good when it feels like shit,” Dean says.

“You're not that reductive,” says Sam. “You're not that dumb. You know what I'm talking about.”

“You,” Dean says. “You're talking. Carry on.”

“No,” says Sam. “Dean-”

“I am not talking to you about my sex life with Cas,” Dean says, loud and final. “Leave.”

There's a silence so long Dean thinks Sam might have actually given up and walked off. Then, lower than before, Sam asks, “Did you tell him about Alastair?”

Dean's stomach lurches. His palms are sweaty; he becomes terribly aware of his pulse pounding in his temples. His feet and fingers feel cold.

He swings his legs off the bed, stands, walks to the door as if possessed.

Since Sam is such a habitual sloucher, Dean forgets that he can tower so effectively when he wants to. Sam's arms are crossed, but his expression is as soft with worry as it is stubborn.

“The fuck did you say,” Dean says, deadly.

“You think I don't know about Alastair,” Sam says, jaw tight. “I do.”

Things click in Dean's brain. “That,” he breathes, “motherfucker told you.”

A crease appears in Sam's brow. “What?”

“That's what he called to tell you?” Dean says.

“So you did tell him?”

“You know,” Dean says. “If he told you-”

“He didn't -” Sam stops, shakes his head hard. “We're not on the same page here. No one ever told me. I just knew, Dean.”

Dean's hammering heart slows a fraction; his dry tongue clicks against the roof of his mouth. “What?”

“You thought you were hiding it so well,” Sam says, “and I never said anything, but yeah, I saw him hanging around a few times and I heard his name.”

“You don't know _shit_ about Alastair,” Dean says, but his voice sounds strange to his own ears.

Sam shakes his head again. “Yeah, no, I don't know the details. I knew you were seeing him and I knew he was bad news. Like, really bad news. That night we left, I figured it was something...” He trails off.

“You didn't say anything,” Dean says.

“I didn't want to out you to dad,” Sam says miserably, uncrossing his arms. “I was so mad at you, Dean... I think you thought no one was paying attention, and I thought you were being a dumb shit just because you could, and I thought... The worst thing I ever did to you was not confront you about that guy.” Sam swallows. “I remember thinking, if something goes wrong, he'll deserve it, 'cause he _has_ to know better.” Sam sags against the doorframe. “I can't believe I thought that,” he says. “And I've needed to tell you for years how sorry I am.”

“Sam,” Dean says dumbly. “I mean, Christ, I was stupid as hell and I did deserve-”

 _“No,”_ Sam snaps, leaning up from the wall. “I don't even know what happened and you never have to tell me, but you didn't fucking _deserve_ it, whatever it was.”

“Sammy,” Dean says, helplessly. He looks over Sam's shoulder, back at his face. “You little shit.” And pulls Sam into a hug.

Sam hugs back hard, just a half-second of enormous, crushing Moose. When he pulls back, he makes that constipated 'I'm not crying you're crying' face, and says, “I always figured that'd be the thing to watch out for if you ever got serious with someone.”

“Sam, you dumbass, I told Cas about that months ago,” Dean says, punching Sam hard in the arm.

“Ow! fuck, seriously?”

“Yes, Christ.”

Sam looks dumbfounded. “Then what the hell did you fight about?”

“None of your goddamn beeswax,” Dean snaps, but he feels unaccountably better anyway.

“Oh god, it _was_ some weird sex thing, wasn't it.”

“He finally takes a hint.”

Sam makes a horrified face. “I though you were just trying to gross me into leaving.”

“I can try again,” Dean threatens.

“God, no.” Sam rubs his eyes with his thumbs. Then, looking pained but considerate he adds, “But I guess, who else're you gonna talk to, right? I mean, if you need to...”

“Absolutely not,” Dean says.

“Good,” Sam says too fast. “Great. You're good?”

“I'm fine, Sam.”

“Okay,” says Sam. He half turns, then turns back. “You and Cas are good?”

Dean facepalms. “Why'd you think we'd fight about Alastair, anyway?”

Sam mouths. “I figured he'd have to drag it out of you kicking and screaming.”

“I just told him,” Dean says, shaking his head. “It wasn't a big thing. I'm capable of not being dumb as a rock sometimes, man.”

“Oh,” says Sam. Then he smirks. “Could've fooled me.”

Dean makes a face. “I can tell you about the parts that do involve screaming,” he says.

Sam turns on his heel and practically runs. “No,” he calls. “Nope.”

“Need a class in the sex abc's, Sammy? R-i-m-m-i-”

Sam sticks his fingers in his ears. “Not listening,” he says loudly. “Goodbye.”

Dean slams his door.

 

\---

 

When he's alone again, though, the nausea and unease return. He sprawls on his bed, crams an extra pillow under his arm. Rolls off again, gets his iPod, flops to his back with headphones on and tries to drown himself in classic rock. The feeling of a fire left burning unchecked lingers, fills him with the scald of smoke. He wishes it was still anger, but it isn't anymore. It burns like anger, but it leaves him empty and itching.

He keeps thinking about the look of fear on Cas' face. He keeps returning to the moment when he hadn't known anymore that it was Cas holding him down. It makes cold sweat break out but he keeps looking at it, dragging it back on rewind and living it again, trying to feel what went wrong.

After a while, AC/DC just isn't cutting it anymore. He yanks off his headphones and rolls off the bed again. It's half past ten and he might as well just go to sleep, but the thought of sleeping is laughable. He's crawling with restlessness and the need to get away from himself.

He goes out to the kitchen and opens a cabinet.

“Took it,” says a voice from the sofa.

Dean glares across the room at Sam.

“I really don't think you should drink this one off,” Sam says, staring stubbornly at his book. He isn't reading it. “Just sleep on it.”

“Okay, mom,” Dean says, flippant, but irritation flashes hot in his belly. He wants a goddamn drink. He's a fucking adult. He's not gonna be made to feel like shit about something else tonight. “Isn't it past your bedtime?”

Sam casts him an unimpressed look over the back of the couch. The book in his hands looks familiar. Dean realizes it's one of the ones Cas gave him.

Dean comes around the kitchen counter and snatches up his keys. He crams the sandals back on because they're immediately available.

“Dean,” Sam says, but he sounds defeated.

“Don't wait up,” says Dean, and leaves.

His intentions are muddled. He wants a drink. He wants a lot of drinks. He'd rather not drink around other people, or he'd go right to a bar. Not the Roadhouse, but a bar where no one knows him. Actually, that's appealing...

But he thinks about getting hit on, or getting drunk enough to hit on someone else, and an oily sliver of revulsion prickles down his spine. So, no. He's going to the liquor store. And then he'll go somewhere where Sam isn't. Maybe just drive out for a while until he can see hills and stars and no end to the blacktop in both directions. He misses that, more often than he'll ever tell Sam, because Sam likes being settled. But that yearlong road trip... Dean could've kept on like that, he doesn't even know how long. Maybe forever.

But he's distracted enough that he drives right past his usual brown-bag haunt before he's even noticed he isn't in the right lane, and it's distant and dwindling in his rearview before he can summon any energy to care. Even then, it's only an idle muttered “damn.” He keeps on because a U-turn seems like too much work.

As he drives, his mind creeps into new shapes and makes new connections like a kaleidoscope turning. This has always been the relationship Dean has with a nice long stretch of highway. The road noise lulls his heart into a more even beat. The sound of a healthy engine makes him happy like he supposes gardening must make some people happy: a thing you worked on, a thing you brought to life from nothing, is now this miraculously complex mechanism that gives and gives endlessly as long as you care for it.

He rolls down the window just to feel the air. The day had been a warm one, the first dry hint of a Californian oven-baked summer. The wind is cool now, though, sofened by darkness.

Dean rubs a hand over his face, sucks in a deep, even breath. His mind turns the evening over and over, a flawed engine part he's trying to find the hairline crack in. If he leaves it unfixed, it'll cause a catastrophic failure somewhere down the line.

He replays the moment of losing himself again. Cas' hands, Cas' hands, then – dark.

But then Cas' hands again. And Cas' blue, scared stare.

Dean breathes out hard. What mattered wasn't the falling, it was the being caught. And suddenly all that burning feeling is gone, the anger-not-anger, the bitterness on his tongue. The fifty-mile-an-hour wind through the window blasts the tarry smoke of fear out of his lungs.

He still feels sick, and muddled, and slow. But now it's just a molasses-bound urge to take it all back, make it all right. His eyes prickle and he pretends it's because the wind's blowing hard on his face. He wants nothing more than to have Cas in his arms and for everything to be forgotten without the intervening steps. He shakes his head at himself in disgust.

Sam's right: he's not so simple that he thinks what he has with Cas isn't worth fighting for. And he'll give Cas all the space he needs to, but he makes up his mind right there that he isn't going to walk away.

He finally makes that U-turn, heads back into the center of town. Both hands clenched on the wheel, fingers drumming restlessly, he tries to think – what he should do is call, or text, but his phone's at Cas's because he's a fucking dumbass. And he needs his phone back for work, too, which can't really wait.

It's a quarter to midnight... Cas'll be asleep, surely. Dean brushes his hand down the wheel to his keys, where a recent addition gleams silver against the old leather fob. He fingers it uncertainly. Cas has a key to his and Sam's place, too. It hadn't been a sappy exchange so much as a practical one: they were always leaving stuff at each others' places, needing to run pick something up while the other was unavailable, and having all-around access made staying organized easier on both of them.

He reaches the edge of the campus, skirts its perimeter. The stadium is a dark semicircle that blocks out the stars. He'd forgotten how much he loves night driving. He wants to take Cas out on a roadtrip, drive for hours in the windblown cool and find a field somewhere and lie on the still-warm hood and look at constellations. He wants a lot of things.

It's time he got his shit together. He makes up his mind, sets course. Five minutes later he's pulling up at Cas' building.

It feels like a lot more than four hours ago that he left here. He feels stupid walking back up the stairs, like some anonymous onlooker might have seen him leave and is now watching him slink back on some strange reverse walk of shame.

He stops in front of Cas' door. Just because he's ready to come crawling back doesn't mean Cas is ready to see him, or that he should do it unannounced. But he has no way to announce himself, since his phone's in there, so he'll just have to grit his teeth and push on.

He knocks softly, just in case. He doesn't want to wake Cas up, but on the off-chance... but there's no answer, so he chews his lip and fishes out the key. He's careful, quiet, gentle. The faint light of streetlights through the building's windows give him a monochrome glimpse of a familiar entryway. He slips inside and shuts the door, flips the lock behind him.

He knows the place well enough by now that he can navigate it in the dark (mostly). He starts shuffling forward, waving his hands in the empty air low in front of his thighs. Still, he manages to misjudge the placement of the coffee table by a couple of inches and walks right into it, whacking his shinbone a good one – that'll bruise for sure. The collision was loud. He muffles a curse into his knuckles but he has a sinking feeling that he's already made too much racket not to be noticed.

“Cas,” he murmurs into the dark, quiet apartment. A little closer to his normal speaking volume, he says, “Cas, it's just me.” His voice echoes too loud and he winces. “I'm really sorry, I just need my phone. I'm gonna have to turn on a light. I'll be gone in a minute.” He doesn't know if Cas is awake or can hear him, but at least he's given fair warning.

He stumbles back to the wall, shin smarting, and flips the switch for the overhead.  
He'd misjudged the coffee table because it's skewed to the side as if it's been kicked. A pile of books that Dean had just this afternoon joked about being Cas' personal Leaning Tower is now scattered onto the floor in a big paper landslide. There's no other sign of disruption in the room but the mistreatment of books is as big a red flag as broken glass might be in someone else's home.

Dean's jacket, shoes, and phone are wadded into a pile on the end of the couch – not where he left them, so Cas must have shoved them there to get them out of his sight. Hurt pangs low in Dean's belly. He pushes off the sandals and leaves them by the door, starts over towards the sofa.

Then he freezes, listening.

The sound he wasn't sure he'd heard comes again – like a cough or a choke, coming from the bedroom. He pads to the bedroom door slowly, uncertain, listening. When his ear's nearly against the wood he hears it again, but it's more clearly sob-like this time.

Dean's heart plummets. Great, so he fucked up a perfectly good evening by freaking out and fighting about it, and now he can add making a grown man cry to the list.

“Cas,” he says to the door, uncertain, “I came to get my phone. I wanna apologize... I get you're not okay with that yet, I'll just... I'm sorry.” He leans his forehead on the door. “I'm really sorry, babe.”

After a beat of silence he frowns. He'd expected a distant “fuck off” at best or another face-to-face berating at worst. Then Cas makes that sound again – too tight and pained to be tears, too teary to be intelligible.

“Cas?” Dean asks.

Cas chokes another noise, louder this time, maybe deliberate, maybe not.

“Are you okay?” There isn't any response. Dean's heartrate picks up. He shouldn't – he doesn't want to be demanding, he doesn't want to invade – but Cas doesn't sound right, he really doesn't – Dean's never heard that kind of sound before -

His hand's on the doorknob before he can really think it through. “Cas, I'm looking in,” he says, trying not to sound panicked. He opens the door a few inches and peers in.

The lights are off, the curtains pulled tight. Cas is sitting crumpled around himself against the headboard, disarrayed blanket pulled partially over one shoulder. He seems to be trying to crush himself smaller, knees tight to his chest, arms over his head. He's shaking.

“Cas?” Dean can't help the spark of panic in his tone. He rushes over. “Cas, are you okay? Are you hurt?” He reaches out to touch Cas' forearm where it's clutched over his mop of dark hair.

Cas flails out and hits Dean's hand away. He's still making that noise, and Dean finally realizes it's the sound of him trying to choke in one breath after another with enormous difficulty. Dean's guts go weightless for a second. Is Cas asthmatic? He's never said anything. Allergic reaction? Fuck if Dean knows, but it sounds and looks like Cas is in pain.

Dean crouches, tries to get a look at Cas' face in the cage of his limbs. “Cas, Cas,” he says frantically, voice pitched low, “what's wrong, please – talk to me, or uh, or write, or – shit, I need to call 911, should I call 911?”

Cas rattles in a deeper breath than before and shifts his head just enough to glare with one red and puffy-lidded eye at Dean from under his arm. “Nnn,” he says.

“Fuck.” Stroke? Heart attack? Dean is now one hundred percent in Break Every Speed Limit, Get To The Hospital mode. He reaches for the phone on Cas' nightstand and fumbles it on. Even as the screen lights up, though, Cas makes a loud, angry-sounding noise and punches Dean hard in the shoulder.

“Ow! Fucking,” Dean stares at Cas like he's a total stranger. What the actual hell is going on?

“No,” Cas chokes, glaring full on now. “Ff.” He grimaces and ducks his head again, rocking into his knees.

“Cas, I'm calling the fucking hospital,” Dean says, exasperated and terrified. “I don't know what to do, man.”

Cas jerks out a hand again and snatches the phone from Dean. He jabs at the screen at few times and then throws the phone back in Dean's direction; Dean barely catches it. He holds it to his ear automatically – it's ringing.

Dumbfounded, Dean waits. On the fourth ring, the line opens and a groggy-sounding woman's voice says, “Cas?”

“What?” Dean blinks, then realizes he didn't even look at the screen to see who Cas dialed. But the voice rings a bell. “Amelia?”

There's a beat. “Dean?” she asks.

“Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, hi, I'm – you were asleep, I'm sorry, Cas just – threw the phone at me.”

“Mwhat?” she says, and yawns.

“I, he's,” Dean scrambles for words, “he's having a fucking heart attack or something and he won't let me call 911-”

Amelia lets out a sudden whoosh of a sigh. “Oh, boy,” she mutters over the phone.

“What? What?”

“Can't breathe?” Amelia asks. “Won't talk, rocking, that kind of thing?”

“Uh.”

“He's having a panic attack,” she says, yawning again. “He probably shoulda told you what to expect from one, but he hasn't had a full-blown one in a long while. He's fine.”

“He's not _fine!”_ Dean bursts out. “He can't _breathe!_ What kind of – what are you even -”

“Are you still in the same room as him?” she interrupts.

“Yes,” Dean snaps.

“Put the phone on speaker.”

Dean mouths for a second, then does so.

“Hi, Cas,” Amelia says to the room at large in a much calmer, kinder voice. “How much do you want to kill Dean for talking about you like you're not right there?”

Cas has hidden his face again but he raises a hand long enough to stick out a middle finger.

“He just flipped off the phone,” Dean says, “or me.”

“You, buddy,” Amelia says, sounding amused. “Listen, Cas, you'll probably regret it if you murder him. Cut him some slack, he doesn't know what's happening from a hole in the ground.”

Dean sputters indignantly at the phone. Cas knocks his head sideways against the headboard once. “Hey,” Dean snaps, fear still thrilling through his nerves, and reaches out. “Don't.”

“Don't touch him,” Amelia's voice drifts over the phone. “That's a freebie. Here's one more: leave him alone.”

“But -”

“Hey, Dean? I like you, I think you're good for Cas, but I'll come over there and knock your head in. Is the room dim?”

“I... yes?”

“Then leave him alone, you dingus.”

Dean waffles for a long moment, heart wrenched into tiny pieces by the sound of Cas' labored breathing. He's so confused, he's so afraid, every fiber of his being screams out to not just walk away from this. The caretaker in him cannot comprehend leaving Cas alone in this state.

“Dean, I've been his friend for more than twenty years and his wife for nine of those. If you're not going to listen to me, I'll hang up. It's late.”

Finally, Dean drags his feet to the door. “Fine,” he snaps at the phone, backing out of the room. Is he imagining it or does Cas' breathing sound a little more even already? He hesitates again, but finally pushes the door shut.

In the living room again, he stares blankly at his stuff on the sofa. “Dean?” Amelia's disembodied voice says, tinny in the quiet.

“Yeah,” he replies, and can't help how high and strained it comes out.

“It's scary, I get it,” she says, much kinder than she has been. “I had years to get used to what it looks like and I've never had to know what it feels like. The most important thing to remember is that _more_ panic is the absolute last thing he needs. Keep your head on straight, wait it out, be there when it's over. That's what you do.”

“That's not enough,” Dean croaks, and clears his throat, embarrassed. “I mean, there's gotta be something.”

“Here's your basic breakdown: he gets oversensitized, hates being touched, hates moving air. Shut windows and turn off fans. Turn off the lights. Uh – if there are any strong smells, try to get rid of that. Let him deal with his own temperature control, blankets or whatever. He described it to me once like all his filters disappear? Like just – _existing_ is the most stimulation he can stand. And it's like a huge weight, he said. A vice crushing his chest.”

“Christ,” Dean says.

“And, hey... maybe try not to blaspheme as much? It's not that he – it just carries a lot of baggage you probably don't think about.”

Dean blinks. No, he hasn't thought about that. “Oh,” he says. “Sorry.”

 _“I_ don't care. I take the Lord's name in vain all the goddamn time. The shape of my rebellion, I guess. I got more cynical than Cas did; he got more depressed... and these days he's... well, I'm getting sidetracked, but trust me, he'll never say anything but he'd appreciate hearing 'Christ' and 'God' less in his everyday life.”

“I never even thought...” Dean says quietly. He goes over to the couch, sits down by his coat and shoes.

Amelia sighs. “I know,” she says. “He'd kick my ass if he knew I said that. He doesn't want other people to change to accommodate him.”

“But I want to,” Dean says.

He can practically hear her smile over the phone. “I know that, too,” she says. “And I get it. So trust me.”

Dean lets out a long breath. “I thought I'd gotten my head around the anxiety thing,” he says, feeling stupid.

She sighs. “I was terrible at taking care of him for the longest time,” she said. “But he didn't know what it was then, either. We kinda grew into it together. When he finally started seeing a psychiatrist and coming home with this whole new vocabulary that described what was going on without him having to make up new words all the time, he was ecstatic and I was – a complete asshole about it, to be honest. I had to get dragged out to meet his therapist at the time and get a good braiding down before I started accepting that the attacks really are out of his control. You know that much, right?”

“Yeah,” Dean says. “Or, I know he can't help worrying about stuff. Lots of people, public speaking or whatever. How he's a teacher with both of those,” he adds, disbelieving.

“Right?” Amelia laughs. “My god, I wish you could have seen him at our wedding. He was a disaster wrapped in a tux. The whole ordeal was like an act of God.”

“Old or New Testament?” Dean says with the beginnings of a grin.

“Old,” Amelia says seriously. “Lightning and wrath and cutting infants in half old.”

Dean laughs. He slouches over the phone in his hands. “So, um,” he says. “Thanks.”

She yawns; he's pretty sure it's mostly pretend. “No prob. I'm just my ex-husband's 24/7 on-call relationship counsellor.”

Dean checks the clock. “I'm sorry I woke you up,” he begins.

She makes a 'who cares' noise. “Technically Cas woke me up,” she says. “By the way, it really has been a long time since he had a big breakdown like this – did anything happen today that was different from usual? Just curious.”

“I -” Dean hesitates, but then thinks, if there's anyone it's actually appropriate to tell... well. “We had a fight,” he admits. “First real fight.”

 _“Finally,”_ she says, sounding satisfied.

He blinks. “What?”

“You were too damn gooey,” she says. “It was going too smooth. 'S not normal. Had to get that first one out of the way sometime.”

He considers that for a moment, then barks a laugh. “Yeah, I guess that's how to look at it.”

“Hang on, was it anything I need to kick your ass for? Or his?”

“No.” He bites his cheek. He doesn't really want to tell her, but he wants her not to worry. “It was stupid,” he says at last. “Something happened that scared us both and we got mad about it.”

“...Yeah?” She sounds tentative for the first time, like she isn't sure she can pry this far.

“Not,” Dean tries. “Not like, that would scare anyone else. It's. I mean.” He huffs a breath and rolls his eyes. “I used a safeword,” he blurts.

There's silence for a long moment. He nearly hangs up. “Oh,” she says at last.

“It wasn't,” Dean tries.

“Whoa, no, I don't want to know.” She laughs, a little too high. “Christ, I'm trying to imagine Cas doing anything that would involve _safewords.”_

“Yeah,” Dean says uncomfortably. “I get that he's not like that.”

“No,” she says. “It kinda makes sense.” She hesitates. “You're safe, right?”

“Yes,” he says immediately and firmly. “Hence safewords.”

“Okay,” she says. “Good. Cool. That's fine.”

He can tell she's uncomfortable and he tries to change the subject. “I know we had to fight about something eventually,” he says. “Wish it wasn't so dumb.”

“Doesn't sound dumb,” she says. “Sounds kinda big.”

“It really wasn't,” Dean insists. “It really...” He leans forward, elbows on his knees, and rubs a hand over his face tiredly. “I got pissed 'cause I thought he was treating me like china. He got pissed 'cause I was being pushy. That was it.”

“Okay,” she says, “well, first of all, he got pissed because he was _scared_ because he _thought he'd hurt you,_ which is way different. I don't even need to be there to know that, 'cause that's just him through and through. And it's him all over to get mad when he's scared, so if you do the same thing then you're screwed. Sorry.”

Dean groans. “I know I'm terrible at this. I don't deserve...”

“One: stop right there, because no, and two, you're drunk-tired and it's too late for this conversation.” Her tone is firm, the shift abrupt. “It's after midnight. You know what you're gonna do? You're gonna hang up and sleep in Couchtown for one night, 'cause you're a gentleman. And you're gonna go to Google in the morning and look up panic attacks and educate yourself. In the meantime you're not gonna bother Cas during an attack, and you're gonna talk to him for real when he pulls himself together. And I'm gonna call him sometime tomorrow to check on that.”

“Geez,” he mutters. “Who are you, my ex-wife?”

“By proxy,” she says, “yes.”

“God, why.”

“I'm helping,” she says petulantly. “I like you, so I'm helping. It's a compliment. Take it or leave it.”

“I'm taking it, I'm taking it. Jesus dickshitting Christ.”

She snorts. “Blaspheme all you want, bucko, you can't phase an old churchmouse. You should hear some of the ones I know.”

“Share?”

“Later.” She yawns again and this one sounds entirely real. It's catching; Dean muffles a yawn of his own into his fist before she's even done. “It's sane peoples' bedtime,” she says. “One more freebie: hazelnut chocolate -”

“I knew that,” Dean gripes.

“- and if you get him a coffee from out, a hit of spiced brown sugar syrup.”

“Seriously?”

“It's a seasonal fall thing, but the Starbucks by the Chevron station usually has it in stock,” Amelia says. “I am your ultimate cheat code.”

“I owe you,” Dean says.

“Big time,” she agrees. “Now, God, I'm tired. I can't believe I've helped you so much, it must be the sleep dep.”

“I'm sorry we dragged you into this,” Dean says, quiet and sincere, “but thank you, Amelia.”

She gives a little sigh. “Take care of my best friend,” she says.

“I will. I'll try.”

“Then we're even. Good night, Dean.”

“Good night.”

Dean stares at the phone in his hands long after it's gone silent. He's still running too hot on adrenaline and nerves to go to sleep. But he does turn off the overhead, click on one of the small lamps, and pick up all the fallen books by the soft light. He drags Cas' laptop out from under a sheaf of papers, moves his coat and shoes to the floor by the sofa, and lays out lengthways.

Half an hour later, he's still reading about anxiety disorders and getting more and more distressed at the enormity of how much info there is to absorb about brain chemistry. Not to mention how much isn't known at all. He's chewing on his lip when the bedroom door clicks open.

He looks up at once; Cas looks tired but otherwise normal. “Hello, Dean,” he says, raspy.

“Hi,” says Dean, shutting the laptop and swinging his legs off the couch. “Cas...”

Cas shakes his head. “I find it humiliating,” he says calmly. “Thank you for listening to Amelia.”

“Yeah,” says Dean. “She reamed me a new one. More or less.”

Cas gives him a tired little smile, leans his head against the doorframe. “I don't want to talk about earlier,” he mumbles.

“Okay,” Dean says carefully, stomach dropping. Well, he's prepared to outwait Cas' anger.

Not that Cas looks angry at all. Embarrassed, maybe. “I'd like to just agree that we're both very stupid men who don't deserve the people looking out for us,” he says, staring at the floor.

Dean's hope reinflates. “That,” he says, “is never up for debate.”

Cas nods. “Why am I so bad with words?” he asks. “I study linguistics and the nuance of human culture for my life's work, but when I need words they abandon me.”

“Dunno,” says Dean. “They don't work so great for me, either.”

Cas sighs and blinks, long and slow. “I'm going to bed,” he says.

“You should,” says Dean, sitting back on the couch. “Do you mind if I crash -”

Cas jerks his head to the side. “Get in the damn bed, Dean.”

Dean hesitates. “Amelia ordered me to Couchtown,” he says seriously.

“Amelia isn't the boss of me,” Cas grumbles, turning away, back into the dark room.

Dean stands and walks over slowly. “She said you don't like being touched...” he puts out there, questioning.

He can practically hear Cas rolling his eyes. “The attack is over,” he says, as if Dean is very slow.

“Hey,” Dean grumbles. “I don't know.”

Cas turns back to him, shoulders slumping. “I know,” he says. “I'm sorry.” He steps towards Dean and reaches out a hand to take one of Dean's. “I just need you to trust that I know how I cope and I know what I'm asking for.”

Dean nods, rubbing Cas' knuckles with his thumb. “Yeah. And, you know. Ditto.”

Cas looks up, meets his eyes, frozen for a heartbeat. Then he relaxes into a little smile. “Point taken,” he says.

Dean shrugs slightly, suddenly uncomfortable with forgiveness. “But seriously, if you ever say you want to stop and I ignore you like that again, you kick my ass up and down the street.”

“Duly noted,” Cas says. “I'm pretty sure I kicked your ass this time.”

“When?” Dean asks, affronted.

“By proxy,” Cas murmurs.

“G- Shit,” Dean says. “I didn't sign up for this weird symbiotic ex-wife polygamy thing.”

Cas smiles serenely, leans in and presses a dry kiss to Dean's mouth. Dean freezes for a second, then kisses back, barely. It's so old-movie chaste it hurts. Dean wouldn't have it any other way.

“Sleep with me,” Cas murmurs.

“Twist my arm,” Dean replies with a grin, and follows Cas to bed.

 

\---

 

Dean is beginning to doze off after a long time of holding Cas to his chest in the dark and letting his racing mind drag itself to a halt. He's drifting, warm, soft t-shirt under his hands, the skin of Cas' arm hot against his. He's...

Awake, suddenly, to a loud, insistent buzzing.

“Fucmnnnhg,” is essentially the noise that Cas makes, arm jerking out from under Dean's to flail at the bedside table. The buzzing is his phone. He mashes it more or less against his ear. “What.”

In the dead silence of the bedroom, Dean can hear the other end of the call, faint but clear. It's Sam, talking at the speed of light. “Cas I'm so sorry, I know it's late – I'm really worried about Dean, he went out hours ago and he still doesn't have his phone, I mean, I usually wouldn't worry so much, I know he -”

“Ffff.” Cas shoves the phone backwards off his head into Dean's face, nearly jamming it up his nose.

“Sam,” Dean croaks, and swallows. “'S past yer bedtime.”

“DEAN!”

“Jeeeeesus,” Dean moans, holding the phone away from his ear.

“I am so – you are – you – you!”

“'M sorry,” Dean says quietly. “'M really sorry but yell at me tomorrow. Please?”

“I hate you,” Sam fumes, but the heat's already going out of it. “You're not dead?”

“Prolly.”

“Fuck you so much. Okay. I'm sorry I woke Cas up.”

“Woke me too.”

“I'm not sorry I woke you up, asshole.”

“Bitch,” Dean mumbles.

“Jerk is too nice for you,” Sam snipes. “Fine. Bye.” The line goes silent. Dean stares at the phone groggily for a minute before he remembers how to turn it off.

Cas jabs him in the side with an elbow. “You're bad at this,” he says.

Dean gives him a drawn-out string of unintelligble grumbling in response.

Cas blindly takes the phone back from him and tosses it on the table. “Night,” he mumbles.

Dean huffs a sigh but relaxes against Cas' back. He reclaims Cas' arm and draws it next to his again, resettles himself and breathes a deep lungful of the smell of Cas' hair. “Night.”

Sleep comes much quicker this time.

\---


	2. Chapter 2

The following morning passes in an awkward silence broken only by the tippy-tapping of Dean and Cas both furiously texting apologies to their respective groggy guardian angels. Eight o'clock finds Dean sprawled on Cas' bed, informing Sam that no he didn't get drunk, not even a little bit, no alcohol was consumed whatsoever, yes he really did resolve things with Cas in a sober and responsible adult way by using his words, no he has not been replaced by a pod person.

Cas comes into the bedroom in a waft of coffee-smell, which is normal. He clunks his mug down on the nightstand as Dean taps 'send'; then a hand is offering a steaming mug in front of Dean's face, and that isn't normal. Dean blinks and pushes himself upright.

He takes the black coffee and looks sidelong at Cas. Cas never brings him coffee. It's a running joke by now, which makes this feel more serious than it probably is, but Dean can't help feeling a little unnerved.

“Cas?” he asks, clutching the mug.

“The last time Amelia and I had a real fight,” Cas says, sipping his own coffee, “it was about a cat. For comparative reference re: relative stupidity of the topics of fights.”

Dean flashes him a momentary grin and takes a drink of bitter black goodness. “Yeah? Cats?”

“One cat,” Cas corrects. “Rather, the possibility of getting one.”

Dean makes a considering face, nods. There was no sign of a cat at the Novak household so he's assuming someone didn't get their way. “You won?” he hazards.

“Oh, no,” Cas says, taking another pull of coffee. “Amelia won. We kept fish briefly, but I don't believe it worked as the lesson in responsibility it was intended to be. For Claire,” he clarifies, although Dean doesn't need it. “I admit that I was in a phase of consuming an enormous quantity of parenting articles and my stance on the acquisition of a pet was colored by that.”

Dean frowns. Too many big words for eight in the morning, which can only mean that Cas is nervous and rambling. “Do you like cats?”

Cas blinks, looks into his coffee and hides his face with the mug. He hasn't done that unconscious gesture in a while. “I suppose.” Which means an emphatic yes, combined with the hiding gesture. Dean is finally speaking fluent Cas-ese.

Dean glances around the apartment. “Why don't you have one?”

Cas looks up from his coffee and stares at Dean. “I – why would I have one?”

Dean shrugs. “How long have you lived by yourself, more than a year? You're a grown-ass man living alone in a _very_ pet-friendly building, judging by Mrs. Yappy Dog downstairs. I can't believe no one's murdered that dog in the night.”

Cas mouths. “I can't just – _have_ a cat,” he says.

“Yeah, that's... kinda how pets work.”

“I can't have a cat,” Cas says again, more firmly, with a frown.

Dean holds up his hands in surrender. “It's a minefield topic,” he says. “I'm done.”

Cas keeps frowning at him, though, and glancing sidelong at him throughout his consumption of another cup of coffee and a bagel.

When they're about five minutes from heading out the door to their respective jobs, Cas says, “I hardly live alone, anymore. I mean, there's you. I can't just bring an animal in.”

“I like cats,” Dean says immediately. “Argument void.”

Cas pinches his mouth into a thin line and glares. “And it might incite Claire to riot at home if I get to have a pet and she doesn't.”

Dean shrugs. “That's Amelia's problem. She's not the boss of you. Your words.”

Cas keeps glaring, but says nothing else as they leave for work. He catches Dean's arm outside the building, before they split to find their own cars – expression softened, he pulls Dean into a kiss. “I'm not mad,” he says. “About anything. Just to be as clear as possible.”

Dean grins. “Neither am I.”

“Okay.”

“Have fun with the kids.”

Cas groans and walks away. Dean watches where he vanishes around a corner for a minute longer than he should, heartbeat too fast, suffering from a quiet revelation that he's in so goddamn deep he has no idea where the exit might be and has zero interest in finding it. He loves Cas very much and it's disgusting and perfect. He wants to still be kissing Cas in the parking lot like an idiot.

A car honks at him to get out of the middle of the pavement and he stumbles off to the Impala.

 

\---

 

Dean spins gently in Bobby's desk chair, phone in hand, thinking.

Bobby pushes the door open and stops short at his already-occupied office. “What're you doing?”

Dean spins around to face the door. “I'm with someone,” he says, and is kind of surprised at himself because that's the last thing he'd meant to say.

Bobby looks around the room, ceiling and all. “An _invisible_ someone?”

Dean rolls his eyes. “I'm dating someone,” he clarifies.

“No shit, Sherlock, now get outta my chair.”

Dean gets up, grumbling. Bobby pushes by and sinks into the chair with the exaggerated groan of the pretending-to-be-older-than-they-are.

Dean scratches the back of his neck. “It's, uh, it's kinda serious, Bobby, that's the only reason...”

Bobby sighs. “Boy,” he says, “I've known about it forever. I made your brother snitch. Don't bitch him out for it, you know me.”

Dean blinks. “Oh,” he says dumbly. “You –“

“Dr. Novak, who is a man,” Bobby says. “That's all I got and all I want. And thanks a whole bunch for waitin' all winter to tell me,” he adds, dripping with sarcasm. “He got a first name or should I just call him Doc?”

Dean glares. “Cas,” he says. “Castiel.”

Bobby makes a face. “Weird name.”

“Churchy folks,” Dean says. “So, I, uh... I just wanted you to know.”

“Got it,” says Bobby. “I'm assuming he hasn't shown his face here because you don't want me Gitmo-ing him?”

Dean mutters under his breath.

“Eh?”

“Nothing.”

Bobby grunts and looks at his computer. Frowns at it. Dean suddenly realizes he never closed the browser window. “Pictures of kittens, must be serious,” Bobby deadpans.

Dean flushes hot, knows his face is going blotchy. “It's nothing,” he says. “He's thinking about getting a cat.” It's only a little bit of a lie.

Bobby closes out the local Humane Society's website and gives Dean a cool look. “I don't care if it's so serious you're shitting rainbows,” he says. “No kittens on the company computer. Now ain't your break over?”

Dean idly flips him the bird and Bobby snorts, and that's that. Dean goes back to work.

 

\---

 

At the end of the day, after a good long hand- and arm-scouring with Murphy's oil soap that he secretly pretends is like he's a doctor scrubbing up for a surgery, Dean picks up his phone and keys from the break room. Chewing on his bottom lip, he sets the ball he's spent the last three hours thinking about rolling.

_Haven't been on a real date in a few weeks,_ he texts. _Saturday?_

_What did you have in mind?_ Cas sends back within a minute, meaning he must be procrastinating on writing or grading.

_Surprise,_ Dean sends, leaning back in the driver's seat of the Impala, unaccountably nervous.

It takes longer for Cas to respond, and the response is short. _What time?_

Dean lets out a breath. _Get lunch, then go?_ he says.

_See you around noon then,_ Cas replies.

 

\---

 

They don't see much of each other for the rest of the week. There's an unexpected rush at the auto shop that has Dean working extra hours, and Cas admits that he's let a few things pile up in the selfish interest of spending all his not-at-school time with Dean. Dean has to feel pretty flattered about that. But they come to the agreement to not meet up beforehand, and let Saturday be their big reunion for the week.

Of course Sam's car _would_ break down Friday morning, which leads to a shuffling of vehicles and unwanted carpooling. Sam has a weekend thing with friends out of town and no one else can take him, so it only makes sense for him to borrow the Impala. There's just no way to work out the next couple of days so that Dean has a vehicle. It's not so much that it's a problem as that Dean is a whiny child about not having his car.

“You treat Baby right,” he says.

Sam rolls his eyes. “You know I will,” he says. “I always do.”

“Gas her up before you come back. No ethanol crap.”

“Yes, mother hen.”

So Sam's off and Dean has to revise his plans.

Cas is perfectly happy to pick him up from work on Friday. It's the first time Cas has ever been to the garage, which shouldn't make Dean as nervous as it does. It's not like anyone at the shop is gonna care. Dean's just attempting to wipe grease from his hands and arms off on a towel that's already so dirty all it does is spread the grease around when he spots Cas' car pulling up into the lot.

Cas parks relatively far away and the door opens; he's still got the tan overcoat on, although it's beginning to edge into weather too warm to justify it. Dean grins at the sight. Then the passenger door opens, too, and -

Ah, crap, Dean completely forgot to take Claire into account. Does Cas have her this weekend? Or maybe he just picked Claire up from school and came right here? Crap, he should've thought this through better. Maybe he'll need to cancel tomorrow.

Cas is saying something to Claire as they trot across the parking lot towards the garage. Dean steps out of the shadowy overhang and waves to catch Cas' eye. Cas sees him and his smile makes Dean go embarrassingly gooey for a moment.

Suddenly there's a ninja-quiet trucker-hatted presence at Dean's side. “Visitors?” Bobby asks dryly.

Dean jumps. “Christ on a bike,” he snaps. “Uh – yeah, that's Cas and his kid, Claire. Sam's got the Impala...”

Bobby waves away the longform explanation. “What's with the mobster coat?”

Dean laughs. “It's just his thing. He loves that coat.”

“Ugly as homemade sin,” Bobby comments.

“Yeah, I know,” Dean says fondly.

Bobby eyes Dean as if his mushiness might be a contagious disease, then walks on out into the sunlight to intercept Cas. Dean hurries after.

“Hello,” Cas is saying when Dean catches up. “Mr. Singer?”

“How'd you know?” Bobby holds out a hand (scrubbed clean already, the OCD bastard).

“Dean speaks highly of you,” Cas says, a little too formal, the way he always is around new people. Claire looks between the adults, fidgety.

“Does he. And you are?” Bobby looks down at Claire with that stern-but-warm face that puts Dean in mind of Santa. Not that he'd ever say that to Bobby.

Claire waffles. Cas touches her shoulder. “Claire,” says Cas.

“Hi,” Claire mumbles.

“Pleasure to meet you, Claire,” Bobby says, crouching a little to hold out his hand. Claire shakes it uncertainly. “I'm Dean's boss.”

She squints. “You fix cars too?”

“Yup.”

“Cars are cool,” she offers.

“You bet they are,” says Bobby. “Dean been teachin' ya anything about them?”

“I know what a carbonator is,” she says at once.

Bobby grins and pats her head. “Then you're already doin' better than half the idjits who work for me,” he says.

“We're just here to be Dean's chauffeur service,” Cas says.

Bobby nods, turns to Dean. “How's that lemon coming?”

Dean holds up his greasy hands. “I'm just gonna be ten, fifteen more minutes.” He looks at Cas. “Sorry to make you wait...”

“No hurry,” Cas says. “Claire appreciates any chance to avoid her homework.” He looks knowingly down at his daughter.

She's eyeing Dean's hands. “What're you doing?” she asks Dean, the eager gleam of curiosity in her eyes.

“Putting an engine block back together,” Dean says.

Claire tugs Cas' coat sleeve, looking up. “Canniwatch?”

He smiles. “You have to ask Dean,” he says. “You might be in the way.”

Claire turns wide-eyed to Dean.

“Sure,” he says. “It's kinda boring, and it's loud in there.” He nods to the shop. “But if you wanna.” He glances to Bobby to confirm; Bobby just rolls his eyes at Dean fondly and heads back to his office with a quick goodbye to Cas.

So Cas and Claire follow Dean back into the shop, where he gets her a stack of milk crates to sit on to watch him finish up the 2003 Saturn Ion he's been working on for a couple of days. Making the thing roadworthy physically pains him. It is an abomination unto the car gods. He tried to talk the owner into ditching it and trading up, but it has sentimental value, apparently. He sighs, gets a cleanish cloth and gets back to it.

“What's that?” Claire asks suddenly, pointing.

Cas sighs and gives Dean a Look.

So it ends up being more like another thirty minutes instead of ten, with Dean answering Claire's questions and identifying parts every time she points. Sometimes Cas steps in to direct her attention elsewhere or to help Dean when he's struggling with why Claire just keeps going back to the same question over and over. Eventually, Cas leans close to Claire's ear and murmurs, probably meant to be too quiet for Dean to hear but he catches it anyway, “Let Dean finish, baby, he's tired and wants to go home.”

Dean won't argue with that, but he has to admit he's having a lot of fun, too. It's been a long time since Sam was interested in getting Told About Cars. Sam'd graduated from toy trucks to kid books very, very young and never looked back. Dean didn't realize he's missed having a captive audience.

So Claire just watches. When Dean's wrapping up, she suddenly yanks on Cas' sleeve again. He leans down to listen to her whisper.

With the tiniest hint of a sigh, Cas asks Dean, “Is there a bathroom?”

“Yeah,” says Dean. “Tell you what, Bobby's office is that way-” he points; “Go use the executive ensuite.” The phrase is dripping with sarcasm, but it's kinda true, too. The bathroom off the office is a lot nicer than the public one, which has the cheap single ply paper and harsh soap; the soap in Bobby's bathroom shows up mysteriously from Bath & Body Works in smells like “peach bellini” or “cashmere woods”.

Cas vanishes with Claire in tow. Dean finishes up the car in peace and goes to scrub down in the big sink. After a moment, Cas comes back sans Claire.

He walks up close, looking worried. “Dean,” he starts, “I didn't want to say in front of Claire but – Amelia's had something come up and I need to take Claire for the weekend, I know it's sudden but -”

“Dude, calm down,” Dean says. “You know I love your rugrat.”

Cas smiles slightly. “I hate to cancel tomorrow,” he says.

Dean thinks fast. “Well,” he says slowly, “what I have in mind is totally G-rated and kid friendly. You think she'd want to crash her old man's day out?”

Cas blinks in surprise. “I – I don't know,” he says, “if I'm comfortable with not knowing what the plan is, in that case... I mean, if she even wants to go...”

A small blonde cannonball tears across the shop floor and hits Cas in the legs. He whoofs. “Dad,” Claire says, “I met Jake in the office, Jake is SUPER tall.”

“Jake is the jolly green giant,” Dean agrees, right as said Jake comes into sight from the same direction. Dean waves and gets a wave in return. “What if,” Dean suggests to Cas, “I tell the kiddo the plan, and she gets to decide if she wants to go?”

Claire glances between them.

“This feels like cheating,” Cas mutters. “Fine. Claire, Dean wants to ask you something.” He turns and wanders a few steps away.

Dean kneels, grinning. Claire looks curious. “Okay, so,” Dean says conspiratorially, voice low, “what do you think about going out with me and your dad tomorrow? 'Cause I was gonna take him somewhere secret, and it's gonna be awesome, and I think you should come, too. But you can't tell him, because it's a surprise.”

“Where?” she asks.

“Well,” he drawls, “he kinda mentioned that he likes cats, so I'm gonna take him to the animal shelter...”

Her squeal answers all possible questions and draws Cas back from his self-imposed isolation, looking alarmed. Dean beams at him but refuses to answer when hen asks once again where they're going. Claire cries, “It's a secret!” and gives Cas a stern look she probably learned from him.

“Definitely cheating,” Cas mutters.

Cas drives Dean home, Claire restless in the backseat. When they get to Dean's building, Claire says, “I wanna see where Dean lives!”

Before Dean can think of something diplomatic to say, Cas says, “Not right now, baby.”

“Dad,” she not-quite-whines.

“I'm gonna see you tomorrow, kiddo,” Dean says.

She makes a grumbly noise that almost contains the syllables 'kittens'. Dean shushes her overdramatically, but he doesn't think Cas made it out.

“You've got homework,” Cas says.

“Don't,” she tries.

“I'll make you some more.”

“Uuuugh.” But she finally flops back in acquiescence.

Dean hesitates with his hand on the door handle. “You cool?” he asks Cas.

Cas answers by leaning over and kissing him.

“Ew,” Claire declares, and Cas laughs into Dean's mouth. Dean grins.

“Okay then,” he says. “See you tomorrow.”

 

\---

 

The phone ringing wakes Dean the next morning. He rolls over and stares at the clock blearily. It's 7:30.

Cas is talking the instant he answers the phone. “I feel no guilt whatsoever in waking you,” he says, sounding grumpy and not caffeinated enough. “Whatever you told Claire had her bouncing off the walls all last night and she's already been up for an hour. It's literally as bad as Christmas.”

Dean laughs into his pillow. They move their schedule up to a breakfast date rather than a lunch one. Dean had the sense to call the shelter yesterday for their hours and to check that they actually had cats in – they do; tons, apparently, and they open at nine.

Cas arrives coatless at Dean's door, because he finally can't pretend that the weather isn't west coast-springtime warm. He looks sleep-deprived and is being led around by his small child as if he's the one on a leash. “Hi, Dean!” Claire chirps as soon as Dean opens the door.

“Mornin', sweetheart,” Dean says, crouching. “I hear your kept your dad up all night.”

“I didn't,” she says, looking contrite. “Promise. And I did all my homework.”

Cas sighs. “She did. I've never seen her so motivated. If I wasn't terrified of whatever you promised before, I am now.”

Dean claps. “Awesome,” he declares. “Pancakes?”

Claire agrees, with volume. Cas just blinks and staggers for the most part.

Dean takes over driving Cas' car. Cas doesn't have the same possessive attitude towards his own driver's seat like Dean does with the Impala; it's bizarre to Dean, but he's come to accept it. Cas would just as happily be a passenger in his own vehicle, slumped towards the window and looking like he could go back to sleep at any second. Dean pulls into the diner parking lot, wraps an arm around Cas' waist as they walk in. Cas casts him a look of amused fondness.

Two carafes of coffee and three short stacks later, the combined sugar and caffiene consumption of all three of them could probably power a small nation. Cas is much more awake and cheerful, rescuing Dean from conversational pitfalls such as asking “which pony is Butterfly again?”

It's just after ten when they set out on the real adventure. “Okay, remember, secret,” Dean says to Claire before they get in the car.

She mimes zipping her lips. He solemnly mimes the same.

“Help,” Cas mutters.

It's towards the edge of town and takes fifteen minutes to get there. Dean happily spends them teaching Claire the lyrics to Stairway to Heaven.

When Dean pulls into the parking lot, Cas says “Dean” in a warning tone. Dean parks close to the entrance. “Dean, no,” Cas says helplessly.

“Cas, yes,” says Dean.

Claire's out of the car like a shot, opening her father's door and dragging on his hand. “Kittens!” she says breathlessly. Cas has no defense against the tidal pull of eight-year-old.

Dean locks the car and catches up, taking Cas' other hand so that the poor man is stuck between his two unstoppable children / forces of nature. He sighs but squeezes Dean's hand and flashes him an 'I can't believe you' look.

“Hi,” says the woman at the desk, starting to stand as soon as they walk in. “What can I do for you?”

Dean clears his throat. “I called yesterday about cats...”

“Looking to adopt today?” she asks hopefully.

“Uh, no,” Dean says, casting a glance at Cas. “Just visit, if that's okay.”

“Sure, absolutely.” She hustles around from behind the desk, looking harried. “Sorry, we're shorthanded. The cat room is right back here -” and she's off down the hall. “So we do encourage people to come in and just spend time with the animals,” she rattles off while trotting. “It's good for the cats to get acclimated to people, learn to socialize. There's a separate room if you want to get any animal off on its own, interact without getting mobbed. It's a hurricane in there. Here we go.” She stops at a door and turns with a practiced beam. “Spend as long as you like, have fun... Let me know if you have any questions.”

Claire's practically vibrating. “Kittens, kittens,” she chants, pulling on Cas' hand.

The desk lady steps to the side and her smile grows slightly more genuine as her eyes roam among the three of them. Dean's heart does a weird little skip when he realizes that she thinks Claire is _theirs,_ not just Cas's. It's on his tongue to correct her, but he chokes on it; he can't pretend to himself that he doesn't like the idea.

“Kittens,” Cas sighs, and lets Claire go first through the door.

The shelter woman wasn't kidding. The room is big, full of shredded scratching posts and climbing structures and rattling bell toys and scattered food bowls, and in this chaos of cat paradise there are at least twenty pint-sized wrecking balls of purring affection. Not that every one of them is a crazed attention-seeking missile; along one whole wall is line upon line of cages, all with open doors, stuffed full of pillows and towels, with more private food, water and litter for the antisocial cats. A few of the higher cages are closed and contain - as promised - tiny kittens. A cutesy sign on each door says "I'm too little to play with the big kids! Please do not let me wander away. (Feel free to play individually in the kids' room.)"

Claire's in nirvana instantly. All three of them split to wander and make their own friends. Cas helps Claire retrieve a small orange kitten and shows her how to carry it without hurting it over to a glass sliding door with a bunch of little-kid drawings of pets posted all over it. Once safely ensconced and armed with a feather on a cord, it's hard to say whether Claire or the kitten goes more nuts.

Dean lets Cas wander alone, but watches him surreptitiously. Cas pets every demanding asshole of a cat who shoves into his space with a dopey-looking grin he'd probably be mortified about if he knew he was doing it. But he seems drawn particularly to the open cages and the lazy lumps inside them, the cats who can't be bothered to move for any human. Cas reaches in each door and lets each cat smell his hand thoroughly before offering a scratch. Some he moves on from immediately, but with some he lingers.

Dean lets himself be occupied by the loud and demanding variety of cat. He finds a low shelf to sit on and is immediately covered in a cat pile. He laughs, fighting for some kind of access to his own head and shoulders, getting cat hair in his mouth from all the needy little bastards who think his stubble is the best thing they've ever rubbed their faces against.

After a while, the indiscriminate lovefest is interrupted by Cas yelping. He comes over to Dean with his head bowed and says, “Help...” There's a black and white kitten halfway down the back of his shirt and trying to claw its way back out via the skin of his neck.

“It's trying to go home with you,” Dean snickers, coming to the rescue.

Cas grumbles, but he lets the wild kitten continue to roam free over his shoulders once it's been extracted.

Over the next hour or so, Claire gives at least five names to every cat and kitten in the joint, Dean gets scratched innumerable times and feels like his own face has stubble burn from all the chin-rubbing, and Cas spends at least twenty minutes sitting on the low shelf petting a white and gray long-haired fluffbomb with one ear who, if it weren't purring, could just as easily be a stuffed animal for how much it moves. Cas flips it over, it doesn't care; Cas squishes its feet, it doesn't care; Cas finger combs its tail... It's an inanimate object, basically. Mostly, though, Cas just strokes it, communing in slow blinks and chin scritches. There's a wistfulness in him Dean doesn't often see, almost a yearning. Dean aches to force the sad sap to take the damn cat home, but he knows better. It's got to happen on Cas' time, if it happens at all.

Claire never wants to leave, but Dean was prepared for that possibility. “Ice cream,” he says seriously, and Claire wavers.

“You're setting the bar far too high,” Cas mutters to him. “You'll never be able to top this one, and she'll be spoiled forever.”

Dean turns the same serious look to him. “Ice cream,” he repeats.

Cas wavers, too. “Okay, fine,” he says.

Dean smirks. He knows how to win.

Because he figures he might as well tick every cliché box he can think of, Dean takes them and their double scoops of Baskin Robbins (well, his and Claire's normal people ice cream and Cas' blended ice cream/coffee abomination) out to the nearest park to wander in the dreamlike spring weather and eat. It's close to lunchtime, but Cas seems to have completely given up on being a responsible adult and parent for the time being. He tells Dean that he figures Claire will run most of the sugar high off in the park and he might get his wits back together enough to make her eat a vegetable at dinner.

Dean finds him and Cas a bench at the top of a low slope where they can see the expanse of the park; Claire immediately starts doing cartwheels down the hill. Dean's exhausted just looking at her. Cas scrapes chocolate crumbs and foamy espresso residue around the bottom of his plastic cup, squinting slightly in the sunshine and looking fraught.

Dean sighs and sets his paper bowl down on the bench, takes the cup out of Cas' hands and stacks the trash together. Then he makes a showy point of tangling their fingers together and resting their joined hands on his thigh. He sighs.

Cas is eyeing him sidelong. Dean smiles sweetly.

“Ice cream and kittens,” Cas mutters.

Dean makes what Sam calls his Disney princess eyes.

“Ice cream,” Cas grumbles, looking away across the park, “and fucking _kittens.”_

“I love you,” Dean wheedles.

Cas lets out an impatient huff through his nose, but Dean can tell he's struggling with a smile. “Damn you,” he says.

But he squeezes Dean's hand. They watch Claire run wild while the sun creeps over its zenith.

 

\---

 

_Damn you._

Dean blinks at the text. From Cas, them's fighting words. It's been ten days since the shelter and the park, and he's forgotten the appropriate context.

Before he can formulate a response, the phone dings again. _Pet store, tomorrow morning, consider yourself volunteered._

Context comes flooding back to him, and Dean's cackling is enough to bring Sam into the room looking worried.

 

\---

 

As punishment for his mockery, Dean drags Sam along, too.

Wednesday morning in the Petsmart is clearly not a booming time for business, but there is a dog obedience class going on up front, so the place is full of noise if not customers. Dean circles round to Cas' other side, away from the dogs. Cas bumps Dean's elbow with his, a silent gesture of solidarity. Sam, on the other hand, goes all marshmallowy at the sight of big dewy puppy eyes and meanders over to watch the dogs and probably try to sneak in some petting.

Dean recognizes the tension that has settled into Cas' shoulders. As they approach the cat section, he looks like he's heading into a gruelling interrogation and is bracing himself for torture. Dean rolls his eyes to himself and snatches Cas' fingers in his; Cas still isn't big on PDA, but he holds Dean's hand back and some of the furrow eases from his brow.

“It's just a pet,” Dean says, amused.

“It's a _life,”_ Cas says tersely.

So Dean stands around getting increasingly bored while Cas peruses literally every item on the shelves, muttering his internal debates over litterbox styles and the potential harm of BPAs in plastics. Eventually an employee walks by the end of the aisle, giving them a lingering glance like her sale-making radar is pinging. Dean makes instant, eager, silent gestures at her to come over, turned just so that Cas can't see him do it.

She pastes on a smile as she walks up. “Hi, can I help you with anything today?” Her dimples are deep and her nametag reads Amy.

Cas starts, but recovers quickly. “Actually,” he says, “I suppose, I have a few questions...”

Just out of Cas' eyeline, Dean makes a face at Amy, half warning and half pleading, that she seems to get and accept. She casts him a look like _'don't worry, I got this.'_ “Absolutely,” she says out loud. “Can I ask about your cat?”

“I don't have one,” Cas says darkly.

“Oookay,” says Amy.

“Getting one,” Dean supplies. “Setting up house first. Starting from scratch, so... any advice you got.”

Amy takes a breath. “Okay, well,” she says, stepping close to Cas and turning with him towards the shelves. “You'll need...”

Dean backs away as casually as humanly possible. He pretends to be looking at types of litter until he's positive Cas is totally absorbed in interrogating the sales girl. Then he slips around the edge of the aisle and flees. He'll happily lift heavy objects and play chauffer, but hell if he's going to stand around and debate the ethics of scratching posts for hours.

He wanders over to look at toys, picks up and puts down a little fluffy mouse like three times, then curses at himself under his breath and goes to look at lizards instead.

Sam finds him in front of a tank full of little scampering blue-tailed skinks. Dean likes reptiles, but can't quite see the pet appeal. Not like you could get the little wriggly bastards out of the tank to play with. They'd run off. A big lizard, maybe, or a snake. That could be cool.

But really, who's he kidding? If it doesn't have fur he isn't interested.

Sam scuffs his foot to get Dean's attention. Dean glances over. “Whatd'ya think, look like you?” He points down to the bottom tank, where a very large and grumpy looking old-man-faced tortoise is lumbering across gravel.

“Ha ha,” says Sam. “Thinking of a pet of your own?”

“Why? 'Bout to have a cat,” Dean says without thinking. Sam smirks at him sidelong, and Dean glares. “You know what I mean,” Dean grouses.

Sam's grin fades. Dean watches his reflection in the lizard-tank glass. He has that constipated face that means he's trying to spit something out that he's been resisting saying for a while.

“So, uh,” Sam says awkwardly, shifting his weight. “I really need to talk to you about something.”

Dean sighs, resigned. “Yeah?” he says.

Sam nods his head to the side. Dean walks with him over towards the fish tanks. There's no sign of any other people, and there's a little guard rail they can lean on as a makeshift seat. Dean crosses his arms defensively before Sam even gets started. His guts are all in a twist; Sam's serious-talk voice does that to him, automatic reflex.

“So spit it out, Sam,” Dean prompts when he settles against the rail.

Sam takes a deep breath. “So, uh,” he repeats, scratching the side of his neck. “You know you only spent one night at the apartment in the last ten days, right?”

Dean blinks. He thinks back. Well, okay, that's probably right... he'd thought two or three, at least, but no, now that he thinks about it harder... he might go home to grab some stuff or to hang out for a few hours but he always ends up at Cas' to sleep. Sleeping without a warm body next to him is unsettling anymore. It makes him sleep light and wake often, sometimes in a sweat.

“Sorry,” he says. “I guess I...”

Sam waves a hand impatiently. “Look, it's not an accusation,” he says. “I'm just pointing this out. Because I, uh, I only slept there three nights last week. Y'know, stayed with Jess a couple times, stayed over at Kevin's dorm studying and playing WoW until like two in the morning and crashed there... I spend a lot of time at Kevin's and Charlie's places.”

“That's great,” Dean says, confused. “You got the nerd herd to hang out with – I'm glad you're making real friends, man.”

“And I'm glad you're making a family,” Sam says, dead serious, and Dean looks at him, startled.

“You're my family,” Dean says, hard and flat.

“I am,” Sam confirms, looking Dean square in the eye. “I always will be. But Cas can be family, too, Dean.”

Dean shifts uncomfortably. “What's got you all full of the urge to chick-flick, anyway?”

Sam bites his lower lip and looks away. “I mailed off the utilities check yesterday,” he says slowly. “And, uh, the lease is coming up end of the summer. And, uh...”

Dean's throat clenches and the bottom falls out of his stomach. “Is there a money problem?” he asks, thinking furiously. There should not be a money problem. By God, he's scrounged and saved and worked his ass off and made ends meet for all these years and he's done the math to death and there _should not be a money problem._

“No!” Sam looks pained. “No, not at all. We can afford the place just fine, man. But, I, uh. I was thinkin'. What if we didn't have to?”

Dean blinks. “What?”

Sam takes a deep breath. “Charlie's sick of working for Community Living,” he says. “She's quitting as an RA next year. Her and Kevin were thinking about pitching in together to rent a place off campus. I, uh, I said I'd think about pitching in, too. Split three ways I'd pay a lot less towards rent than we pay on the...”

“Whoa,” Dean says, heart pounding. “Whoa, Sammy, you're moving out?”

“No,” Sam says immediately. “No, Dean, I'm telling you about this thing that is a possibility so we can _talk_ about it. I would not just ditch you. Okay?”

“Okay,” Dean says uncertainly.

Sam twiddles his thumbs. “But I did kinda want to ask if, um, if the subject had ever come up with you and – you and Cas,” he says, quiet.

Dean drags two and two closer together but freezes up before he gets to four. He can see four from here, but he's pretending he can't. “What?”

“You know,” Sam says. “You spend all your time there anyway.”

“I can't,” Dean says, mouthing and gesturing pathetically, “I can't... _invite myself_ to live with him, Sam.”

“I'm not saying you should,” Sam says. “I'm not saying any of this should happen, Dean. I'm not saying anything has to change. But I wanted you to be on the same page, okay? Like, think about if we didn't have to pay for an apartment we almost never see. That'd be a lot more of a comfort zone every month. And you're – you know, shopping for nursery decorations before you bring home your new baby, and all.” Sam's smirking again, but it's tentative.

Dean's still all clenched up inside with the fear and thrill of Sam's suggestion, but he allows the mood-lightening. “Yeah, there's gotta be bonnets around here somewhere,” he says, glancing around.

Sam chuckles.

Dean looks down at the floor. He chews his lip for a second. “I'm sorry I've been leaving you alone,” he says.

Sam shakes his head sharply. “Don't,” he says. “Don't apologize for spending time with Cas, ever. Just don't, okay? You have this thing and it's – it's great, Dean, it's kinda scary how great it is, and I'm rooting for you. So don't fuck it up, you hear? And definitely don't fuck it up on my account.”

Dean glares, but it's half-hearted. “Well, I've made some of my best efforts to fuck it up already,” he says, admitting defeat. “Hasn't worked yet. Seems pretty unshakable, so far, whatever this is.”

“It's love, man,” Sam says.

Dean scoffs and looks away, even though he's said just as much to Cas himself in more private moments.

“You're such a ten-year-old,” Sam complains, jabbing his elbow against Dean's arm. “Can't admit the l-word, it's covered in cooties.”

Dean jabs back. “All right, Geek Squad,” he says. “Take your dog-loving butt up front and get us a cart, I'm gonna make sure Cas hasn't fallen into a retail black hole.”

Sam gets up from the guard rail obligingly, but turns back before he's three steps away. “It's not a financial decision,” he says. “I'm bringing up the logical arguments, but it's _not_ about money.”

It occurs to Dean that Sam is too compassionate for his own good. Dean spent a great deal of his childhood making sure Sam had enough, and more than enough, no matter how tight money had to get in other directions, no matter what Dean did without or how much of Dean's various minimum-wage incomes and poker winnings Dad drank away or spent on ammo. Dean had spent so much time and energy making sure Sam didn't know how broke they were that it still takes him by surprise, sometimes, when Sam shows clear knowledge of the fact that they grew up poor as dirt.

So Sam does this thing like he is now, where he appeals to Dean's money-sense to get at some emotional pressure point. It's annoying because it works so well. Dean's already calculating the waste that goes into that apartment and can practically taste that extra few hundred a month. New parts he's had his eye on for the Impala, the stuff he needs to fix up that Kawasaki Jo's had her eye on for a couple of years which Dean's always wanted to give her for a present (and she'll be twenty soon, and what a gift that'd be), maybe start saving up for another roadtrip. He has to clamp down hard on that little greedy voice that's always been inside him, that's always drooled over the prospect of having a _little bit_ more, of being a little safer, a little more free, a little more able to breathe. The ten-year-old in him that remembers being in gas stations, counting coins and picking items so carefully, who simmers deep down with resentment and longing because he wants to get the gum _and_ the soda, goddammit, and not have to think so hard about it.

Dean shakes himself free of this quagmire of greed and guilt and makes a face at Sam. “Go be useful, Sasquatch,” he says, and goes off to find Cas.

He hears Cas talking before he rounds the corner into the cat food aisle.

“I live alone,” Cas is saying. “And I spend a great deal of time at work.”

“Have you thought about maybe getting two cats?” says Amy the clerk. “Destructive behavior in cats is almost always caused by boredom. If they have each other to play with when you're gone, it minimizes that kind of thing.”

Dean stops just out of sight, listening.

“Wouldn't two cats be twice the destructive potential, though?” Cas says, worried.

“Well, it's not that different from people living together,” says Amy. “It mostly depends on personality. But as long as you don't get two grade-A basket cases, I've almost never met two cats who can't coexist in peace.”

“I was hoping for more of a lap cat, anyway,” says Cas.

“There you go. One mellow personality can balance a more hyper one. Or if you get two lazy cats, they'd probably spend all their time sleeping and washing each other, anyway. But cats can get lonely and bored, so the company is a good idea. But it's just a suggestion.”

Dean swallows and rounds the corner. He strides over, catches Cas' eye with an easy grin. The furrow of thoughtful concentration that had cut deep into Cas' brow smooths to almost nothing, and he smiles back; Dean's heart skips a beat at how much Cas lights up at the mere sight of Dean. His stomach is writhing – it's not so much butterflies as it is eels. Electric ones.

Dean sidles up to the two of them. “Sam's getting a cart,” he says. “Formed People for the Ethical Treatment of Fuzzy Mice yet?”

Cas snorts. Amy smiles politely at both of them. “I hope I could help,” she says to Cas.

“Yes,” he says. “Very much, thank you. And I may take your advice. Cats aren't the only ones who get bored and lonely.” He tilts his head at her with a rueful look. “The apartment is very quiet.”

She beams. “Bring some life in, then.”

“I intend to.”

She waves off and goes back to work.

Dean clears his throat. “Two cats, huh?”

Cas starts. “You heard that?”

Dean nods his head to the side. “I was just over there. Might get crowded in the place.”

“I suppose they'll get underfoot,” Cas says, “but I have to admit I'm looking forward to it. It's so quiet when you aren't there, Dean. I didn't adjust well to living in isolation after always living with family, and with you there so often now, when you aren't, it's... well, I don't think two cats is too many. And I am at work a great deal.”

Dean's heart is hammering. He's barely wrapped his own head around what Sam just told him, but he couldn't be being handed a clearer invitation if it were written in blood on parchment Old Testament-style. “Uh,” he tries, and his voice is too high, so he clears his throat. “So, uh, ha... Sam just said something kinda similar. That it's lonely at our place, when I'm not there.”

“Oh,” Cas says, brow shooting down into a furrow again. “I'm sorry, Dean, I didn't mean to imply that you should spend more time with me – of course, Sam -”

“No,” Dean cuts in, “no, that isn't – he was kinda saying that... it's almost like we already live together.” Dean casts him a lopsided grin, trying to be easy, casual. Failing. “Some friends invited him to split rent on off-campus housing next semester,” he blurts.

Cas mouths for a second. Dean searches his eyes to watch the pieces fall together.

Then Cas' eyes widen fractionally and he looks straight at Dean, piercing. Dean bites the inside of his cheek automatically; he flushes a little, because that blue stare does things to him that don't really belong in a family-friendly pet store in public on a Wednesday morning. His eyes flick to Cas' lips, he can't help it.

“Move in with me,” Cas says suddenly, firmly, brooking no argument.

“Uh,” Dean says helpfully.

Cas shakes himself. “I mean,” he says, suddenly uncertain again, and apparently unaware of the fact that his commanding tone a second ago had shot straight to Dean's groin. “I think, logically. Logistically. I don't see why not. I mean. I have space, and. But no, I'm sorry, it's too sudden, it's – no, I didn't mean. You don't have to. I suppose, just... it's something, something to think about, for... the future...”

“I, Cas, I'd love to,” Dean says, not a whole lot more articulate than Cas is. “I'd want to. I mean, if you'd want to. But like, I can't just – invite myself to -”

“I am,” Cas says, stepping closer to Dean, so they're almost chest-to-chest. “I'm inviting you. You could, if you want.”

“I want.” Dean's heart is pounding, but a smile is tugging at his mouth and he can't resist. “I really want. Do you think it'd work?”

“I want to find out,” Cas says, serious, wide-eyed and searching.

Dean's hands are on his face in a second, mouth on Cas' dry soft lips, which part for him with a sigh and a hiccup of unexpected laughter. It feels like getting shot, this thing, this happiness that happens with Cas sometimes. So sudden and explosive an intrusion into Dean's body that he can't tell if it hurts or not.

Dean registers the rattling noise approaching them but it doesn't shake his focus on kissing Cas as soundly as he deserves. There's a squeak of cart wheels and a bitten-off curse from Sam. Cas snorts and breaks the kiss.

“Really?” Sam's saying. “I leave you alone for ten freaking seconds.” Dean looks over to catch his bitchface and sees that Amy the clerk is with him, blushing furiously and trying to find something innocuous to look at.

Cas clears his throat loudly and wipes a hand over his lips in an almost unconscious gesture. He looks at Sam and then at Amy, awkwardness written all over his face. “I must amend my described circumstances,” he says. “It appears that I no longer live alone.”

“Oh,” says Amy. Her eyes widen a little. “Oh!” She offers a smile. “Congratulations?”

Sam is gaping at Dean. “Damn, you are _fast,”_ he says.

Dean shrugs, grinning uncontrollably. “For that, you're picking up the forty-pound bag of litter,” he says.

 

\---

 

Ellen calls just before the weekend; Andy the line cook is sick, just a cold, but Ellen won't let him near the kitchen without bathing in a vat of Lysol and even then won't let him touch the food. No one else is available and Dean can't cook like Andy but he can at least flip a burger. If Ellen mans the bar and Jo runs tables, she thinks they might scrape through Saturday night. She tells him that if he can't make it, she'll close the bar for one night; it won't be the end of the world.

Dean waffles so hard. He never would have waffled before, but his world has expanded to include so much more than just his two jobs, and bouncing back and forth between them with no time in between has suddenly started to feel like a ball and chain. It'll mean he can't go back to the shelter with Cas to pick out cats. But – he can't let Ellen close the Roadhouse on the first Saturday of the month; it's unthinkable. She isn't exactly independently wealthy. She _needs_ one of the best nights of the month.

He waffles out loud to Cas over dinner. Cas gives him an “are you stupid” look. “Go save the day,” he says seriously. “Be the hero of small businesses everywhere.”

“Damn it,” Dean mumbles, but calls Ellen back before he's even finished his plate of meatloaf and mashed potatoes. Which is damn good, he has to say, even if he did make it himself, and he's annoyed that he's too stressed out to enjoy it.

Everything after kissing Cas goodbye on Saturday morning is a nightmare. Off to the garage first thing, thinking about hurling a wrench at the merrily tweeting birds who keep perching on the windowsill while he catches up on a shit-ton of paperwork and orders. Several hours and the first headache later he tries to leave and instead gets caught mediating an argument between Jake and a dumbass customer who doesn't know what they're talking about (per the norm). Finally gets away, is late to the bar to try to get some prep done in the kitchen; forgets he hasn't eaten anything all day, gets his ass sat down and fed soup and a sandwich by Ellen before he can even get started. That wastes another hour. Jo won't be in until right before they open because she has classes. Dean ends up with no help and almost no time to get the prep done, and Andy's organizational system is incomprehensible to the human mind.

The second headache starts right around the time Ellen flips her neon on and carries on throughout the night, thudding behind his left eye every time an order with some special-snowflake amendment comes in. Every time the door swings open he catches a glimpse of the dim bar which had always seemed so warm and welcoming to him before; it still looks welcoming, but that's because he knows it's like an _icebox_ compared to this kitchen. He sweats until he's sure he's lost half his body weight in water, ends up tying a kitchen towel around his head. It gets hot at the garage, sure, but it's also open-air, and it's noisy, but the noise is familiar.

Christ, and he thought it was hard work manning the bar on a busy night. He has all kinds of newfound respect for lazy, mellow, perpetually just-shy-of-stoned Andy. In fact, he suddenly understands how Andy can keep doing this job. A joint sounds about as good as a cold shower does right now.

Somehow he makes it through the night. Ellen yells to the bar at large that because they're shorthanded, the kitchen's closing early – at eight-thirty instead of its usual 'whenever'. Dean slumps against the fridge in relief when time finally rolls around.

Ellen comes in and claps him on the back. “Eat something,” she says firmly. “Sit down. Have a drink.”

“Just the last one,” Dean says, eyes closed. “God, I may never be able to face a burger again.”

But after he goes outside and cools off, his stomach starts complaining. So Ellen cooks him the last burger of the night and Dean eats way, way too late, and too fast, and knows he'll regret it in the form of heartburn later.

With his forehead resting on the cool of the bartop, Jo comes over and pats his hair. “We can handle the rest of the night,” she says. “You should go home. And you know Mom'll never be able to thank you enough.”

“Never again,” Dean groans into the polished wood.

Jo pours him a sympathetic shot. He downs it, then one more.

Twenty minutes later finds him leaning against the Impala in the parking lot, a little dizzy, a little breathless, looking up at the stars and being struck suddenly in the heart by Jo's simple words: _go home._ And he looks around the parking lot, memory boring into him like a bullet: the feeling of a dark-haired stranger's hot breath on his cheek as he fumbled out his keys in the dark of the early morning; unfamiliar broad hands on his waist and chapped lips on his neck; that deep voice, drink-rough and exciting. Dean's heart pounds. Those hands and lips and voice _are_ home now – familiar, loved, and no less exciting.

It's the shots or the stress or both that has him biting back tears in the Roadhouse parking lot at ten at night, back turned to a group of raucous bikers hanging around the entrance. He blinks hard, gets his keys out, rests in the driver's seat with his eyes closed for a minute.

Then he goes home.

\---


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's a Cas timestamp instead of Sam because the main story wasn't from Cas' POV this time.

Dean's breath comes quick and shallow against Cas' lips, and at only the faintest hint of a sound, Cas closes the distance again, silencing him. It's well past midnight but the bedside lamp is on, casting a dim orange glow over the side of Dean's face.

Dean's fingers grip convulsively at the back of Cas' neck and he releases a punched-out breath into Cas' mouth. Warm liquid seeps over Cas' fingers. He keeps up the pace while Dean sucks at his bottom lip and lets slip the world's quietest moan.

Cas draws his hand away, trying not to touch the sheets with come-wet fingers, and Dean sighs. His face is mostly shadowed but Cas can see the soft flutter of his eyelids, the bliss. Grinning into the quiet nighttime, Cas rolls to his back to grope around to the side for the box of Kleenex.

He's wiping off his fingers when Dean rolls over him. A soft “oof” escapes Cas, but Dean's over his face and kissing him again. Air catches just right to make the kiss end on a loud smack and Cas hisses. Dean snorts, so quiet, then reaches down to push at the waistband of Cas' boxers.

Cas thinks about telling Dean he doesn't need to reciprocate, but then he thinks, screw it, it's gone this far already; he just wants to come, quick and easy, and they can go back to sleep happy. Dean nips at his jaw, fighting with the boxers, and Cas makes a nearly inaudible scoffing sound and tosses the used tissue to the side (hoping like hell he hits the trash can), reaches down and pushes his own damn underwear out of the way. Dean's hand is on him at once, pulling, thumbing around the head, and Cas bites the inside of his cheek to keep his breathing even.

“Find something to bite,” Dean whispers into his ear, barely more than mouthing the words. Then he pushes partway to his knees and starts shuffling backwards.

“Fff.” Cas sticks his knuckles in his mouth just as Dean swallows his dick down in one smooth move. His hand tastes like Dean's come. Arousal spikes through him hard and he can feel his cock jump in Dean's mouth. Dean rubs fingers soothingly into his hips; normally he'd vocalize his appreciation, but...

Cas clutches at Dean's hair with the hand he isn't biting, rocking in miniscule thrusts while Dean licks and swallows around him. He's coasting along at a comfortable high, close enough to feel orgasm on the horizon but not frantic for it. Dean hums faintly, just for a second; he sucks hard, slides up, and the wet slick sound is too loud in the silence; they're getting sloppy. Cas grips his hair a little harder, forgetting for a moment that that kind of warning only encourages Dean to further debauchery. Dean deep-throats him again and climax spirals a little closer.

There's a quiet knock on the door and a small, tired voice calling, “Daddy?”

Claire's voice is pure icewater. “Shit,” Cas snaps, at least with the presence of mind to be quiet, so it's barely more than a breath of a word. Dean jumps, pulls off with a pop that makes shame and humiliation squirm in Cas' guts. Cas pushes him away, goes hurriedly fumbling for his underwear, lost down around one shin and tangled with the sheet.

Claire knocks quietly again. “Daddy, I can't sleep.” The doorknob turns, because damn children and their lack of understanding of personal space. Cas slides so far across the bed away from the door he nearly falls right out. He gets hold of his boxers and scrambles for the legholes.

Dean, meanwhile, scrubs his hand over his mouth but looks remarkably unruffled. He tugs his own boxers to be sure they're settled; he's already wearing a shirt, at least. “Hey,” he calls back to Claire just as the door inches open. “What's up, kiddo?”

Cas really does fall off the side of the bed. He thumps down like an idiot, takes the opportunity to jerk his underwear up. Fucking boner won't get with the program and go away, though. He sits up, peering over the edge of the bed.

Claire stands in the doorway, clutching her stuffed gray horse. It's ratty with age and wear, missing all but one of the little rosettes that had once been in its yarn mane. She looks groggy and miserable.

“Hey, baby,” Dean murmurs, sliding off the bed on the doorward side and going over to crouch near Claire. “What's wrong?”

“Bad dream,” Claire mumbles. “I tried'a go back to sleep but there's something in my closet.”

“Monster?” Dean asks. Cas is too distracted by this turn of events to remember he's trying to find a shirt.

Claire nods.

“Man, monsters are no problem,” Dean says easily. “Want me to come in there and kick its butt?”

Claire looks uncertain. “Mom says they're not real,” she says.

Dean leans closer in his crouch. “When you're scared of 'em, that's real,” he says. “Right?”

She nods.

“So you just gotta know how to fight 'em, and then they're not scary.”

She chews her lip. “Fighting sounds scary.”

Dean scoffs. “I know all about monsters, girl squirrel. Tell you what most people don't know – you know what works against every kind of monster? Salt.”

Her brow furrows in confusion.

“It's protection,” Dean goes on. “Works against everything.”

“You're making stuff up,” Claire scolds.

Dean spreads his hands on his knees. Cas finally blinks back the presence of mind to duck his head and go fumbling across the floor for the sleep shirt he'd pulled off earlier because it's a warm night and he was hot. As he slips into it, Dean's saying, “You know how many kids know there's monsters in their closets, though, yeah? So how come none of those kids ever get hurt? It's 'cause every house has salt in it. Monsters aren't real smart. They'll come around to any house and try to see if they can get in, but they can't. And if you want to be extra, extra sure, you sprinkle some salt on your windowsills.”

“Really?”

“Heck yeah, they can't step over the line.” Dean holds out his hand. “You wanna go to the kitchen?”

Cas peers over the bed again to see her nod enthusiastically and take Dean's offered hand. As they head out into the dark apartment, he catches her ask, “Where's Dad?”

“He's in the bathroom.”

“I didn't wanna wake him up but the light was on...”

Cas rolls his eyes up and thumps his head against the side of the mattress. At last he gets his feet under him, pushes up. His erection is blessedly gone. He pops a crick out of his neck and decides he might as well take Dean's excuse, and pads into the bathroom.

A few minutes later, bladder empty, face (and sticky hands) freshly washed, he feels slightly less like a terrible excuse for a human being. Stepping back into the bedroom, he nearly trips over an ankle-high furry brick wall.

Whispering curses and staggering, he reaches down and picks up Lady. They close the cats out of the bedroom at night for a reason. Trib is probably somewhere in here now, too, biding her time until they're tucked in and trying to go back to sleep before she decides to climb on the bed and crush the oxygen out of their lungs.

Lady sets up a loud, stuttering purr, like an engine with a cough, and Cas rolls his eyes. They left it up to Claire whether she wants to keep the cats shut out or not. Usually she leaves her door cracked. She's a great deal more tolerant of sharing her space with the cats than Cas is – at least while he's trying to sleep. He loves the furballs, he does, but he's like a cat himself: he won't make any concessions about his sleep habits and he's picky about who he'll cuddle with.

Scratching Lady under the chin, he pads out the door. There's no sound from the kitchen, so he heads down the hall to Claire's door. He can hear Dean's murmuring voice before he gets there, and drops Lady on the floor. She darts before him into Claire's room. He goes up to lean in the doorway.

Claire's sitting on the edge of her bed, holding her gray horse under one arm, salt shaker clutched in her other fist, listening with wide-eyed attentiveness as Dean shines a flashlight around the inside of the closet and talks.

“Nada. So what kind of monster do you think it was?”

Claire holds the salt shaker closer to herself. “There's kinds?”

“Oh, sure,” Dean says casually. “They're like any other kind of animal. Some of them mean business, some of them look scary but they just want to be left alone. Best thing to do is keep 'em all outside where they belong.”

“Really?”

Dean clicks off the flashlight. “Most of 'em are kinds of fairies,” he says.

Claire's brow shoots down again, her bullshit-calling face.

Dean grins, crouches by the bed so that Claire's looking down at him. “Not like Tinkerbell,” he says. “Fairies are complicated. They can grant wishes, but you have to never ask them questions or eat food they offer you, that's how they catch you. They're tricksters. But if a fairy's bothering you, sneaking around trying to scare you, you can always trick 'em right back by throwing a pinch of salt at 'em. They _have_ to stop and count every grain.”

“That's dumb,” she says, but sounds eager.

“Right? They hate it when people know that trick.” Dean reaches out his empty hand for the salt shaker and she reluctantly hands it to him. He puts it and the flashlight next to each other on the table. “Like I said, you just have to know about the monsters' rules and you'll realize they're not scary.”

“So if I see something in the closet, I can throw salt at it?”

“Yup.” Dean beams at her. “A little goes a long way, though, yeah? 'Cause it gets messy otherwise. And – oh, hey.” Lady appears from wherever she'd vanished to, rams his shins full-force so he wobbles and has to catch himself on the bedside table. “Oh yeah,” he says, “and cats catch fairies, too. They'll probably stop hanging around here with cats _and_ salt everywhere. No monster would ever want to come in here.”

She smiles down at Lady and sets the horse aside to beckon the cat, who jumps up on the bed and proceeds to wash Claire's forearm until she giggles and fights back. A yawn catches her mid-struggle. Cas thinks it's close to one in the morning.

“Okay, that's enough monster hunting lessons for one night,” Dean says, standing. “You think you can sleep now?”

Claire nods, smiling up at him. The motion makes her catch sight of Cas lurking in the doorway. “Sorry I'm 'wake, Dad,” she says immediately.

Cas shakes his head, stepping into the room. He lays a hand on her forehead. “It's no problem, baby. Sorry you had a bad dream.”

“'Sokay.” She blinks owlishly at him. “Did you know about the salt?” Catching a plot hole.

“I did not,” Cas says smoothly, looking at Dean. “Clearly Dean's from a long line of monster hunters. He'll have to teach us both all about the secret lore.”

“Oh,” she says. “Okay.” Yawns again. “Night.”

“Goodnight, Claire,” Cas says, bending over to kiss her forehead and ruffle back her hair. She shakes his touch off, blinking slowly with the drag of tiredness.

Cas turns to go but before Dean can follow, Claire grabs his hand. “Thanks,” she says, almost shy.

“No prob, squirrel,” Dean says.

Claire throws her arms out for a quick hug around his torso. Looking startled, Dean leans down and hugs back.

“Go to sleep,” he murmurs, extracting himself with a gentle noogie to the top of her head. She shakes him off, too, and flops back into her rat's nest of covers to fight with the cat for space.

They head back to their bedroom in silence; Cas goes prowling around and finds Trib under the desk, nuzzling the warm power strip and thinking about chewing on the cable. He evicts her and shuts the bedroom door with a quiet click.

Dean's already in the bed. Cas pulls back the covers, climbs in without making eye contact even though he can feel Dean's eyes on him. He settles partly facing Dean, though, making it clear that he's not shutting Dean out, he's just embarrassed.

Dean leans over and noses at his cheek and the side of his neck. “Still want a hand?” he says, grinning.

“Ah, _no,”_ Cas says emphatically.

Dean snorts. Cas manhandles him into a more comfortable position, kisses him once for good measure, and contorts around to find the switch on the lamp. The room plunges from dim to pitch.

After a minute of breathing in the dark, Cas can't help it. “Salt?” he asks.

Dean chuckles, curling his arm possessively around Cas' middle. “Jeez, I'd almost forgotten all that stuff,” he murmurs. “It's the stories I used to tell Sam when he had his scared of the dark phase. I had a whole mythology worked out for all kinds'a critters.”

“Clever. Get him thinking about solutions instead of worrying over the ambiguities of the unknown.”

“Psh, I didn't think it through that much. I tried the usual first, told him monsters weren't real, but that just made it worse. Like he thought I was gaslighting him. It made him not trust me, and that was rough. So I just started making shit up. Told him Dad was secretly a monster hunter, that that's why he had us learning survival shit all the time. Like, it wasn't just paramilitary nutcakes, we were actually doing something useful and kinda heroic. He ate that up, so I just kept going and going with it. He grew out of it but we kept up talking out the mythology for a few more years. He had a rough time in middle school, y'know, always being the weird, smart new kid who knew a freaky number of things to do with a Bowie knife but had the social skills of a hedgehog. Making up other monsters was a better alternative to the kinda monsters preteens can be.”

Cas has closed his eyes to listen. He nods when Dean drifts to a stop, running a hand under Dean's shirt to settle warm on his side. “You're a great brother,” he says. “And father.”

Dean makes a discomfited noise.

“You were a father figure to Sam,” Cas murmurs insistently. “And I trust you with Claire in a heartbeat. You're so good at... I can't deal with her fears that well.”

“Eh,” Dean says, shifting uncomfortably. “'Sjust being a big brother, I guess. You were the baby of your family.”

Cas doesn't bother saying anything about how his sibling relationships can't be effectively compared to anyone else on the planet.

“Nonetheless,” Cas says. “Thank you.”

“Sure thing,” Dean murmurs. “Now you gonna sleep sometime before dawn or do I need to do something to knock you out?” Cas can practically hear his eyebrow-waggle.

Cas pinches his hip. “Nearly being walked in on by my young child once is one time too many for my _entire_ life,” he says.

Dean laughs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There are now cats, because everything is better with cats. Cas named the fluffy white and gray ragdoll Lady, after Sansa Stark's direwolf. (Cas is firmly Team Sansa for endgame and Dean thinks he's nuts.) Dean named the much younger, more troublemaking tortoiseshell Tribble. Because Dean is a nerd.

**Author's Note:**

> I was like "this story needs conflict" and then I wrote a 30 page fic with conflict in literally only the first 3 pages. Good job. (Also, I'm so pleased "just add kittens" was already a tag.)
> 
> So like I said in a previous story, I gave Castiel my own experience with panic, but the attack in this story is stronger than attacks I've experienced. (OTOH, it's not stronger than attacks I've witnessed in others.) The things Amelia advises Dean to do in this story are literally just the same things that I prefer if I'm having an episode, and are not general advice. If you read lots of accounts from people with anxiety, the things that help them vary wildly. Music or a voice help many people, a cup of tea, someone touching them. It depends on the person and their experience! (However, one biggie is true across the board: the last thing a panicking person needs around them is another panicking person. Just chill, yo.)
> 
> Also, my mother taught college when I was in elementary school. Let me tell you, you cannot get away with ANYTHING.


End file.
